


Troublesome Mathematics

by sparktastic



Category: Fallout (Video Games)
Genre: Courier is a grump, Drug Use, Gen, Lone Wanderer is a nice guy, Walking and talking, can be shippy if you want idk, conflicting karma, memory troubles, past trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 03:11:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2531927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparktastic/pseuds/sparktastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hero of the Capital Wasteland travels to the Mojave at the behest of the NCR, much to the displeasure of the marauder who has to deliver him to New Vegas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Troublesome Mathematics

**Author's Note:**

> I should warn you up front that I am not a natural writer and I pick this stuff up and put it down so, updates? What updates? This was going to just be self-indulgent nonsense to reflect on my own Fallout PCs but I figured, why not upload it? I might come close to finishing some creative writing for once.
> 
> Apologies for any weird formating, punctuation, plot holes and geography problems. I can't remember NV too well, especially the land itself so bear with me, or correct me and I can fix it if it's something glaring.

The welcoming committee really wasn’t what he was expecting. Though, honestly, he had no idea what to expect. He had been given a very vague description of where to go and what would happen but he had sort of hoped that when he was so close to reaching Guardian Peak, he would meet his escort but instead he was getting stuck up. A red sight was unsteadily trained on his face, flickering in and out of his eyes and leaving spots in his vision while the barrel of a shotgun was pressed into his spine. Who the hell threatens a man with a shotgun to his back? Shit! He couldn’t help but raise his hands to show lack of threat, he was in no position to make for the hunting rifle on his back or pistol at his waist.

His assailant spoke with a moderate southern drawl, “Nick Delaney?” 

Oh.

-

Nick’s days had been comparatively leisurely since the water purifier had been activated. Of course, he couldn’t go back to his old life from before, he had been wrenched out of all he knew and it was an irreversible change. He took jobs from whoever needed him but he had an affinity for the Brotherhood of Steel. Nick was taking some respite at the Citadel when Rothchild had come to him with the “opportunity”. 

There was trouble out west, waaay out west. California west. A lot of nasty factions had bases out in the Mojave Wasteland, around California and Nevada, and shit was hitting the fan. The New California Republic had been trying to keep order but they had doubts how they could handle the situation that was unfolding, whatever that was. The NCR had agents who quelled issues as they arose but they could only do so much and Nick’s skills were requested.

It was kind of flattering. The kid that crawled out the vault had achieved enough fame for a faction across the country to want him of all people to help them keep order. Of course, he was still worried. He’d faced a lot of shit but had no idea what the Mojave was like. If the situation was ugly enough that the NCR needed backup, could he handle that kind of mess?

He still said yes, though.

Maybe it was rash. But Rothchild seemed happy so how bad could it be? He told Nick that he would report to Dennis Crocker at the embassy on the New Vegas strip. Nick couldn’t help but grin at that, he heard Vegas was freaking awesome. Crocker would give him duties not unlike the things he’d done for the Capital Wasteland, just more organised.

Nick did ask how he would get to Nevada in the first place. Rothchild said the Brotherhood Verti-bird would take him most of the way. Oh hell yes. Though he would have to make his own way to Guardian Peak, where a courier would pick him up and take him to Vegas.

Vegas and an opportunity to go on the Verti-bird? What a sweet gig!

-

‘Sweet gig, my ass,’ he thought and sighed. That earned him a jab in the spine with the gun barrel.

“Well?” the man holding the gun probed, impatient.

“Yeah, that’s me. Man, do you treat all your outside diplomats like this?” Nick’s hand lowered as his guard relaxed, the only reason this guy would be here and know his name and not shoot on sight is if he was his escort. A little suspicious though. Suddenly, the pistol on his belt was gone and the butt of it cracked Nick on the back of the head.

“Ack! Son of a bitch!” Nick crowed and both his raised hands went to the back of his head. Damn, was this guy trying to crack his skull?

“Don’t play with me, smart ass. Got any proof y’are who you say y’are?” That accent was grating already. The jerk stepped round, allowing Nick to put a face to the voice at least. The guy looked mid- to late 20s, wearing worn reinforced leather armour and a stereotype-reinforcing cowboy hat that shadowed his fair hair and angry eyes. He held Nick’s 10mm casually in one hand and the shotgun was lowered in the other. That was a good sign at least. Wait, this guy carried a shotgun and an assault rifle? Sure looked like an AR on his back. This man knows no overkill, obviously.

“Alright, jeez,” Nick hissed and drew from his armour some sort of letter of intent and handed it to the cowboy. The guy changed his grip on the 10mm, allowing it to hang upside down from his pinkie as he opened out the letter, because fuck trigger discipline, obviously. He glanced over the document, clocking Rothchild’s signature and notarisation at the bottom.

“Alright,” he said with a shrug and flicked the pistol back to Nick, who caught it as carefully as he could as not to blow his own hand off. What is with this dude? The stranger tucked the letter away instead of giving it back, great.

“EDDIE!” the hick suddenly yelled over his shoulder as he set his shotgun into its place on his back. A beeping accompanied the emergence of a floating piece of scrap, an Enclave robot. Fuck. The bot approached them both and Nick suddenly realised that was the red dot sight that was on him earlier, Enclave technology almost fried him. How the hell did this thing get out west? It made him nervous.

The cowboy must have noticed Nick’s apprehension, “That’s Eddie, don’t mind him,” he said casually and rapped a knuckle on the side of the bot, a dull tone emitted. Nick snorted.

“You introduce your robot before you introduce yourself,” he commented, it came out a little snide. The guy frowned and rolled his eyes.

“Well, excuse me Mr. East Coast,” he drawled and removed his hat in mock courtesy, “I’m the Courier and you can go fuck yourself.” Nick noticed a very apparent scar on the man’s forehead, partly obscured by hair that was much lighter than he’d seen on most people.

“Courier? I was invited by the NCR, I’m no package to deliver, buddy!” Nick bristled, there was that weird wording Rothchild had used again. He had wondered why he’d said a courier would pick him up, a courier is just a mailman right?

Annoyance crept across the courier’s face and he narrowed his eyes as he set his hat back on his head. “God fucking damn, you’re a pain in the ass already,” he muttered, more to himself than to Nick, and turned to begin walking over the ridge.

Nick followed out of obligation to stick with his guide, “Hey, I just want to know your name!” he protested, it was probably best to diffuse this before the guy opts to just abandon him in the desert.

“And I told you it and you’re still goddamn complaining!”

“What, your name is the Courier?” he questioned, mocking creeping back into his voice.

“Yeah, so fucking what?!” he spat back at Nick, stopped in his tracks and Nick froze as well.

Silence hung between them for a minute. “So your friends call you the Courier?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s with that?”

“I was a courier. Still kinda am.”

“Why don’t you use your actual name?”

A beat of silence and the briefest look of apprehension flashed over the Courier’s face, “I just haven’t used it in a while is all.” All venom had melted away from his voice. How strange.

“What is your real name?”

“None of your business.”

“Come on, tell me.”

“No, you’ll try and use it and nobody fucking uses it.” 

The Courier began walking again and Eddie flew past Nick to catch up with… its master, Nick guessed would be the term. The bot looked pretty bashed up. It was an eyebot but the red dot it was using earlier probably meant the Courier used it for fighting, and it showed. It had been patched up in a couple places, and on its right side was a faded red plate reading “ED-E”.

“Oh, I get it,” Nick commented idly.

“Get what?”

“Why you call it Eddie.”

“What’s there to get? It’s his name.”

“Well, it’s less original if it’s written on the damn thing.”

“The hell are you talking about?”

“The plate on its side.”

The Courier glanced around at his robot, it was zigzagging behind its master but pulled him to float along on his left. The cowboy turned and looked back at Nick, eyes narrowed.

“Whatever man,” he said with exasperation. Nick got the distinct impression he had no idea what he was talking about, the plate wasn’t even visible where the robot was at just then. Maybe this guy was just really dense. He mused over that as they sorted out business at Camp Guardian, a place sparsely held by some NCR troopers. The Courier went to the comms tent, most likely to pass on the message that they were heading for Vegas. Nick, however, made some chitchat with the idle quartermaster he was attempting to trade with. Apparently this camp had been abandoned for some time after a scouting party was wiped out but the Republic had to station more men there to keep up reliable monitoring posts around the wasteland. Nick asked if the fates of the last men at Guardian worried the quartermaster at all and got a shrug. Of course not.

One again fully equipped with ammo and stims, he exited the store tent to see the Courier stood out on the ridge, looking over the barren wasteland with a cigarette hanging from his fingers. Nick stepped from the overhang of the tent to examine the view himself and it was… odd. The vast reaches of nothing were different from that which he was used to. Home was wide and grey and dark, covered in rubble and super mutants and maybe some standing buildings if you were lucky. The Mojave was wide and orange, attempts at mountains of craggy red rock scattered with shrivelled black scrub plants and the occasional sprig of green. The clouds in the sky cast sporadic patches of shadow across the landscape. The place probably looked the same now as it had before the end of the world. It was weird. 

Eddie beeped as he emerged back over the ridge and brought Nick back to reality, only then did he realise the Courier was staring at him critically.

Nick’s defences went up, “What?” he shot. 

The Courier snorted and glanced back at the view, “What do ya think of it?” he asked casually. Nick paused, clocking a clutch of mutated scorpions in the distance.

“It’s really bright,” he said finally. The Courier laughed, coughing a little. He stepped up to Eddie and stubbed his cigarette out of the robot’s side and flicked the butt away. 

“Let’s go, Crocker’s expecting us so any death or delays are going to be my fault.”

“How long you think it’ll take?”

“I dunno. Day or so? Longer if we run into some shit. Which we probably will.”

“Fuck.”

-

“Fuck!” came a hiss from across the store. Nick glanced across the store to see the Courier crouched behind the counter. They’d just found their way into the convenience store, Nick had booted the jammed door in and the Courier got spooked by a Radroach that flew right at his face. Though he had his shotgun in hand and obliterated the damn thing.

“You okay?” Nick asked and took a sip from the Sunset Sarsaparilla he just cracked open, leaning on the busted fridge. They didn’t get these back home, it was pretty good.

The Courier sighed as he sat back on his heels and flicked a broken pin over the counter where it skittered across the clutter on the floor. “Stupid safe is locked good. I get close then I fuck it up,” he griped and started fishing in his pocket for yet another pin.

“Why don’t you use the computer?” Nick suggested, nodding at the console on top of the counter with the screen idle on the dull green light, “If there’s a safe there, it should control it.”

A derisive snort. “I don’t do computersh,” he retorted, straightening a pin out with his teeth.

“”Don’t do computers”, get out the way,” Nick said with a shake of the head as he crossed the store. He attempted to wave the Courier away so he could stand at the computer but he stayed put crouched on the floor. The proximity weirded Nick out a bit but he ignored it, which was difficult to do when he could feel hazel eyes boring into him.

“Cracking passwords isn’t hard,” he commented as he opened the hacking interface with the shortcut and tapped in his first guess. A noncommittal hum punctuated by the beep of rejection, “People aren’t that imaginative with their security.” His eyes skimmed the list of potential answers and typed in a better guess. No response and another beep. “It’s a useful skill to pick up anyway.” He entered his sure guess and heard a click below his feet. Immediately he began to lose his footing as the Courier wrenched the safe open with no regard to Nick’s standing on it.

Nick stepped back to reclaim his soda and allowed the silent Courier to ransack the safe. The silence was frosty and Nick wasn’t sure why but he was sort of glad for the sound of rifling in the floor safe. The Courier tossed a box of pistol ammo over the safe hatch to Nick’s feet and let it drop with a clang. He himself sat back to reload his assault rifle.

Nick grabbed the ammo from the floor, allowing the bullets to roll about in the box. Maybe ten of them? Not bad. He hesitated and watched the Courier reload his own gun.

“Can you read?” Nick said suddenly. The Courier’s hands stilled on his firearm and his eyes shot up to stare at the other man. It was a look of surprised and suspicion. Nick almost regretted saying anything as the stone silence hung in the air.

“No,” the Courier said shortly. He clicked the bullets into his weapon and slipped the remaining ones into his pocket as he stood. His eyes were hard but the hesitance was still there. 

“Why not?”

“What?” he spat.

“Well, uh, I learnt when I was a kid. I know I had vault education but I would have thought you’d picked it up somewhere by now. You’re older than me, right? I’ve met people younger than me that can read and do math better than I can. So I just figured…” With each rambling, slightly nervous sentence, Nick could see the Courier’s eyes getting narrower. Nick felt very self-conscious right there and made use of the foot in his mouth to stifle any more stupid yammering. The Courier held his cold glare for a good few seconds more, the kind of stare where his eyes flicked between both of Nick’s even at this distance. The Courier broke the tension by looking away sharply and sighing through his nose.

“It’s none of your goddamn business what I can or can’t do,” the Courier said flatly, “And I’d like if you would kindly shut the fuck up about it.” Nick raised his eyebrows and glanced away at that attitude. Well, alright then. The Courier appreciated the silence for a beat before speaking up again.

“I haven’t got the patience to deal with your bullshit and move at night so find a way to keep the door shut and we’ll stay here til light,” he said curtly and slammed the safe lid down hard enough to rattle glass bottles on the counter.


End file.
